Monday, October 19, 2015

JD DeHart- Three Poems

The Weed
No one harvests
the neglected weed,
though it sprouts and begs
to be collected.
No one coos or sighs
with satisfaction at its sight
in the window, though it
flowers just the same.
Poisons are given to it,
and it still comes back, it
is pulled up from the roots
and yet finds a way in.
Stacks of it are left, spread,
and threaten to choke out
the blossoms that are prized
by others.

Small events that mix like paint,
give us brand-new images, a car
won't start, a new neighbor moves in,
the earth has begun to cool
A song plays on the radio that speaks
like a god to your aching mind, a deer
stands beside the highway and refuses
to cross your path, the semi lurches
A photograph flashes from nowhere,
your brother moves out and leaves you
the exercise room you wanted, you wake
up and find yourself transformed
into a mythological creature you never
knew existed.

Book Worm
Brown jacket, they push him aside
but he cannot hear their words
The look on his face tells you he
no longer exists on this plain
In fact, when he should listening
or watching where he is going
He is fighting some dragon, or meeting
some beautiful girl, or sitting
By the brook of a narrative, just enjoying
the cadence of its burble.

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